I can write happy things, too.

Fast forward 6 years and I come downstairs to the smell of coffee and hot cocoa, of love made in the morning. The dogs greet me in the kitchen, pleading for a scrap of breakfast as if you hadn’t already slipped them each 3 pieces of bacon. You smile at me from the table, a blanket around your shoulders and hair going every which way. Before I know it, I’m kissing your forehead and sitting in your lap, watching the mug pressed to your mouth with soft envy. This, this is what I dream about.